Axis Fuller
Mentor, District Six
Victor of the 8th Hunger Games
Callinda corners me backstage and pulls a clenched fist out of my trouser pocket. Peeling the fingers back and flattening it out, she puts two pink pills on my palm and crosses her arms till I swallow them dry. I'm nudged forward a little when I do, just enough for the dull light of Six to reach my forehead. I must have a bruise from this morning's sad sack of shit shower, because the next thing I know, I'm back in the shadows having a fine powder applied to my forehead by Callinda's steady hand.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I…"
I don't know what I want.
If it weren't for Callinda looking at me with her too big, too blue eyes, I might not know where I am. She takes a step, then another, and her too big, too blue eyes are confusing. They're too close. She's, too close.
"Get your shit together, Axis"
And she's gone.
I blink, and the space Callinda used to be is filled with grey children dressed in grey clothes. I take the time I can't be seen to shake myself, and get my shit together, as best I can. I wipe my sweaty palms on my slate grey trousers, and am pleased to see they carry the coating that prevents any moisture from darkening the fabric. My mossy green vest feels too tight with all the silver buttons done up the right way, but it too is clean, and not obviously sweaty, and for that I'm thankful – a massive improvement from this morning I think, and clench my jaw. For all the wonders of The Capitol, it's possible the tablets Callinda gave me are working that fast. As I pull my suit jacket open to create some feeling of freedom between my constraints, and myself, I look down to check the contents of the left pocket over my heart.
She remembered.
Folded neatly in the hidden pocket I find my token – the one thing connected to The Games that isn't a source of fear, or regret, or debilitating sadness.
It's my token that gives me the strength to climb the stairs when I'm called for.
When I find the only golden chair on the stage, reserved for me, I turn to face the entire crowd fully, for the first time. I reach for am armrest to steady myself at the sound of a single, high pitched wail that comes from somewhere down the back, where the smaller children are. The reaction fades the closer the crowd is to the stage; the older children are over it. They've seen crying children. They've been crying children. Even the peacekeeper response is muted. A quick walk through is enough to make it clear to whoever made that sound that here is not where you do that. You do not cry on Reaping Day. Not when delicate sound equipment can pick it up and feed it back to The Capitol.
The eighteens at the front look almost bored. They're old enough to get a glimpse of life beyond The Reapings, and they're not too pleased with what they see. For a district whose principal industry is transportation, there aren't a lot of places to go. My father was a baggage handler. Before I was reaped, it seemed likely I'd continue the family legacy of picking up after other people. It's a good job for hard workers with no hopes or dreams of being seen by people. Although the behind the scenes aspect of the job was appealing, back then all I wanted was to build things. I started with scraps or metal and timber my dad found at work, and for a short time during my Capitol ordered rehabilitation, I even played at making great works of art as the talent I took up now I no longer have to work.
It's funny, and it's painful. The little things I made for myself with the poorest of materials worked out just fine. I might even still have some of those hand fitting structures buried somewhere in the ruins of our old house. But with all the money, and support The Capitol had to offer, nothing I made since before my reaping ever stayed together long enough to be remembered. I think the problem is the wanting them to fall apart. Expect bad things will happen for long enough, and you start to want them.
I think maybe, you start designing for failure.
Slip Bearing
Female Tribute, District Six
Today is Aspect's first Reaping, and all I can think about is how badly I don't want it to be me.
The guilt has been trickling through my insides for days, and is now a very solid, very heavy mass in the pit of my stomach. I almost expect it to show through my clothing, but looking down only gives me the same old regular view – a concave torso, and very knobby knees. My faded black shirt blows in a small and unchallenging breeze. Even the weather is on its best behaviour today. More like, even the weather knows to keep it in when the camera crews are in town.
The Mayor is winding up, and it's time for Callinda to take the stage.
I lift my chin up to look at her in spite of myself. Her long blonde hair has been dyed blue, and swept up into a bun on the top of her head. The bun is secured with metallic blue feathers that also feature as accents to secure what appears to be a matching blue toga that ripples only the tiniest bit at what's left of the wind for today.
"I know you're all beside yourselves with excitement at another opportunity to share in the mercy and generosity of The Capitol, so without any more preamble, let's select the girls first, shall we?"
Callinda takes surprisingly sure steps as she swoops over the bright orange ball carrying the names of every eligible girl in The District.
Aspect's name is in there once.
My name was in there eight times at my first Reaping.
Callinda doesn't waste much time digging around for a piece of paper she's satisfied with. She reaches in once and takes a slip from half way down, dead centre.
"Slip Bearing!"
There's a roaring in my chest, in my ears, in every part of me. There is no lump of solidified bad feelings at wishing for anyone, including Aspect, to be called instead of me. All there is, is the roaring.
The other girls in the fourteens melt away as a clear path opens up to the stage in front of me. I'm breathing way too hard, and way too fast, and it's all I can do to keep my eyes on the ground ahead of me as I make my way to the stairs at the foot of the stage.
I want to scream, I want to cry, I want to break down and be whatever it is that's coursing through me right now in this moment, but I put one shaking hand on the rail to my right, and haul myself up to a very blue Callinda.
"Get it together, Slip. You can scream on the train"
I blink, and the roaring ebbs. I risk a glance at Callinda's face and see that kindness is showing there, just the tiniest bit. Whipping my head around, it's clear this whispered request has gone unheard by the rest of the District. The microphone is off.
I take a few deep breaths as she leads me to where I have to stand, and a hard smile reappears on her face as she turns back to the crowd.
"Now, on for the boys!"
Hasp Pinion
Male Tribute, District Six
Somewhere behind me, Branch is freaking out. On any other day, I'd brush it off and act as buffer between his fear, and the thing - or things, he's freaking out over. But today isn't like 364 other ones in a year round here. Today is The Reaping. And both Branch and me wouldn't stand a fucking chance if we were reaped today. His father is an auditor, and mine is a cartographer. We're well off enough; that means we're not actively starving. But we're not strong, we're not particularly big or dense or agile or – we're not anything particularly useful, basically. I mean, I guess I'm a little smart; I may be called above average. Branch too. But neither one of us are prodigies from Three. If either one of us gets reaped today, we die.
Getting him here helped take my mind off how I feel about today, and it's only now, in the seconds before the male tribute is called, that I start to wonder what I'd do if it were my name Callinda calls out. How would I present myself? What would my strategy be? Mr. Ordinary? Mr. Hopefully the rest of the Tributes will forget about me and I'll be able to slink off before the bloodbath, only to die the second anyone remembers I exist?
"Hasp Pinion!"
My heart stops, and in the silence, I'm suddenly sure it won't start again. I look back to the sixteens, and find Branch in his own little circle of people avoiding touching him. His eyes are big, and wet, and I think he's hyperventilating.
I swallow once, and shake my head so he can see.
No need to freak out, Branch.
I'm the one that's going to die.
